


The Zealots are High on Dopamine (Go Easy Now)

by verulam (krynon)



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Blowjobs, Clubland AU, M/M, Rhys' low standards, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6594310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krynon/pseuds/verulam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's Sasha and Fiona's fault, they are terrible influences! Honestly, I do not feel that I can be blamed for this." </p>
<p>Vaughn stares.  "Wait, are you going back?" </p>
<p>And well, yeah. Handsome Jack was an awesome DJ, and his dick was fuckin' huge.</p>
<p> Featuring Jack the DJ, and Rhys as a newbie clubber with not an awful lot of dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Zealots are High on Dopamine (Go Easy Now)

**Author's Note:**

> Largely unbeta'd, lemme know if you spot anything off!

The bass is pounding in Rhys’ bones. It’s a feeling he can’t quite describe, thrumming up and down in his insides. It’s not a song that he’s heard before, but he’s not sure he’d recognise it even if it were, it hurtles in and out of his brain at the same rate as the dancers around him, swirling and jumping with sweat burning through the room.

 

It’s tiny, there’s no room to breathe, and Rhys feels  _ alive, _ brimming, Sasha ahead of him screaming and jumping to a song everyone seems to have heard  million times before, and there seems to be a group of people wearing sequins next to him because he’s blinded by all of this  _ flashing. _

 

It’s- he’ll admit that Sasha and Fiona have had  _ worse _ ideas than this.

 

Fiona elbows his side, pushes a drink into his hands, he hears someone next to him holler, “ _ Down in one!” _ , and who is he to disagree? The music pushes at his joints, and Rhys gulps, throws his plastic glass in the air, jumps along.

 

He’s never felt-

 

Sasha grabs his hand, pulls him ahead, puts a hand on his face, pushes him towards the DJ booth-

 

Rhys is burning up and his hands must be  _ so _ sweaty, covered in the remnants of whatever very alcoholic thing Fiona had given him. It’s not his first drink of the night. He catches eyes left and right, jumping and jumping, hollering along even to songs he doesn’t know, dropping to the floor as the crowd does, pouring out lyrics and getting offered drinks left and right.

 

(He doesn’t take them except when Fiona’s buying. It was Fiona’s idea, after all.)

  
  


His hands sway in the air and he screams along, breathing in something that tastes like incense but was probably just a smoke machine, and catching eyes with the DJ who was-

 

Okay, definitely not Fiona and Sasha’s worst idea. The DJ is  _ pretty, _ hot and muscled, muscle tee stretched over something powerful, and smirking and howling along with the music in his tiny booth. And Rhys isn’t gonna say he’s into it, but when the bass drops, he makes eyes and screams along like this song is the best in the world.

 

“ _ Oh!”  _ The whole crowd catches a note at once. Something in the back of Rhys’ head howls, wonders if this was the modern equivalent of some ancient ceremony, euphoric and pounding in his joints, wonders if he can just dance enough he might reach some plane of existence beyond-

 

Fiona presses another drink into his hands, and after he gulps down what he trusts by now is  _ very  _ alcoholic and probably a shot, they join a circle with Sasha and  _ hurl _ themselves around, up and down and  _ euphoric, _ and Rhys wonders why he’s never done this before, with something like electricity in the floor, the man behind the desk controlling the whole room-

 

They  _ jump.  _ Their hands shoot  into the air, grab at something unseen,  _ scream, _ top of their lungs,  _ howling out words to a song he’s never heard- _

 

Suddenly he’s being pushed slowly towards the front, closer and closer to the DJ booth, closer and closer to whoever the man was in control of the swirling crowd, closer and closer and closer still to the speakers and the bass  _ thumping  _ deep in his head.

 

Someone yells “ _ One more time!” _ Over the music, and Rhys has no idea how, because everything is in his head at a million decibels.

 

There’s a lull, a break, and Rhys has enough time to blink a little, and breathe in the buzzing room.  The music dies and then tt comes on slowly,  softly, and Rhys can’t help but stare at the DJ. He’s got the smuggest grin on his face, they’re meeting and there is a pause where there’s no music at all.

 

All is quiet. There's a moment where Rhys can barely breathe. 

 

Then, over the speakers, the DJ’s voice.

 

“ _ One more time!” And the thrum of music erupts, people scream, dance, _ up on their feet and jostling each other in every corner of a dark room and Rhys is  _ at _ the booth now, standing in front of it as the DJ moves knobs and presses buttons and then glances down.

 

He holds out a hand. 

 

Rhys has very little time to think it before he grabs it, pulls himself up, and is dancing in the DJ booth in front of everyone.

 

The music  _ howls _ now, above the speakers, and it must be that the bass is doing funny things to him, because this DJ is the best-looking man he’s ever  _ seen. _ Angular jaw, sharp brows, a smile so wide, and then the bass  _ does _ do funny things to him, because the man asks-

 

“You into it?”

 

It’s a lull in the music that gets to him. It’s a pause and a drop where Rhys just sort of stands there and looks confused.

 

“Babe. You  _ into _ it?” Asks the DJ.

 

And of course, Rhys blinks, feels his heart thump in his chest, feels the bass building again beneath his feet, gasps “ _ Yes,” _ and suddenly they’re kissing, and a cheer  _ erupts _ from the crowd, and there’s hands in his hair and a leg knee-ing open his thighs and pushing up against him. He’s awhirl with it, and there’s a tongue swirling in his mouth as he kisses right back, watches the DJ stretch out a hand to knock at a couple of buttons, and keeps going.

 

The DJ is salt-deep-sweet on his tongue, nothing but beat and something pulsing madly in his veins. 

 

It’s- he’s breathless, gasping against the DJ’s collarbone, something far softer and more distant playing in the background and-

  
  


***

 

“Okay, _ okay,” _ interrupts Vaughn, abruptly. “No more detail,  _ please. _ ”

 

Rhys shrugs. “And,” he says, flopping down. “That’s pretty much what happened at the club.”

 

Vaughn mirrors his movement, flopping back on his side of the couch.“And you got home… how?” 

 

“Sasha and Fiona. They helped me out, actually, I think I owe them for the taxi-”

 

“You didn’t walk?  _ Dude, _ it’s like 5 minutes away!” Vaughn says, incredulously.

 

“I… may have been a little worse for wear by the end of the night…”

 

Vaughn puts his hands on his face.  “Tell me you didn’t throw up in the bathroom.”

 

“No, no! No, no, no.” Rhys tries to reassure him. Vaughn was kind of a worrier, really. “Not  _ that _ bad. Just wobbly, is all.” He tugs at the back of his head. “It was a good night, really, it was!”

 

Vaughn glares at him. “Do you even know this...  _ DJ’s _ name?” He says, voice full of scorn, which was unfortunate because all Rhys can do is laugh.

 

“Uh- Oh, oh! One second!” He digs in his pocket. “I got a flyer!” 

 

“You didn’t know his  _ name-?!” _

 

“It’s uh. Either ‘Nishas’ or… ‘Handsome Jack’?”

 

Vaughn’s look is like acid. “Uh- huh.” He says, “You know ‘Nisha’s’ is the  _ name of the club, right?! _ ”

 

“Well.” Rhys reasons, slightly sheepish. “At least we know now right? For next time?”

 

Vaughn… had some really good glares going for him, when he tried.

 

“It's Sasha and Fiona's fault! They are terrible influences on me and honestly? I do not feel that I can be blamed for this." 

 

Vaughn stares.  "Wait, are you going  _ back?" _

 

And well, yeah. Handsome Jack was an awesome DJ, and from what he could tell through scrupulously tight jeans and bass-vibrations, his dick was  _ huge. _

 

_ *** _

“Rhys, no.” She says.

 

“Oh, c’mon. It was fun! I had fun! We all had fun, right-?”

 

“ _ No.”  _ Sasha and Fiona say together. They share a look.

 

Sasha sighs. “Look, he's a  _ terrible  _ DJ. Last week his set had like, prog rock jammed next to Drum and Bass, you can't just  _ do  _ that-" 

 

“Yeah, but yesterday’s was good-” Rhys interrupts.

 

Fiona frowns at him. “No, it  _ wasn’t.  _ It was fun for you because you were playing damn  _ tonsil hockey _ with a DJ douche in a  _ muscle shirt. _ ”

 

“I…” says Rhys. “Who even says ‘ _ tonsil hockey’ _ anymore, what are you, a middle aged schoolteacher?”

 

“I resent that,” retorts Fiona. “You’re not a teenager, Rhys. You are a full twenty-three years old. You shouldn’t be getting it on with people in  _ DJ booths.” _

 

Sasha gives her a look. “To be fair, he can kind of do that without our permission.”

 

“Exactly!” Exclaims Rhys.

 

“Don’t get cocky. He’s still a bad DJ.”

 

“On the subject of ‘ _ cocky’-” _

 

“ _ Nope!”  _ Fiona stands up suddenly, whipping her hands up. “I will not be having this conversation with you. I gotta get to work,” she says, as Rhys laughs uproariously. Sasha can’t quite restrain her giggles either. “Look, Sasha, just- tell him, okay?  _ Bye!” _

 

Fiona stomps out of the room with her bag slung over her shoulder, and Rhys takes a drink from the juice on the kitchen island. 

 

“Ew,” says Sasha. “At least use a glass. I have no idea where those lips have been.”

 

Rhys frowns at her. “ _ Gross.” _

 

“Really though, was he a good kisser?”

 

And it’s that conversation that leads to Sasha convincing Fiona to go back to ‘Nisha’s’ for a Handsome Jack set, even if it was ‘ _ just for Rhys’ love life. _ ’

 

***

 

His footsteps are a beat of something not-quite, twisted tempo rocking with the thrumming of the walls. 

 

There’s a few steps, a few minutes, a few glances as he makes his way determinedly through the crowd. A few purposeful mis-placed elbows. Suddenly, he’s only inches from the booth, and he checks his watch in the dim light.

 

He stays at the front of the writhing crowd, jumping and howling with everyone else, and then when the set is over, he takes the man’s hand.

 

“Name’s Jack.”

 

Rhys smiles. “Yeah. I’m Rhys.” He looks very pointedly at the nearest staff corridor. “You wanna…?”

 

Jack grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

 

***

 

There’s a thigh between his legs again and he’s  _ gasping, _ gasping at the pressure of it, tight against his pants. 

 

“God,” he says, gripping at Jack’s shoulders as tight as he can. “ _ Go- d….” _

 

“Nah,” says Jack. “But close enough though, right?”

 

And- admittedly it breaks the mood a little bit, because Rhys has to take a moment to laugh at him and call him a douchebag, but then the thigh is between his legs again and he’s gasping out, Jack’s teeth nipping at his collarbone, and the bassline of whatever the speakers are playing now thrumming through the walls of the corridor hitting him with every stuttering shove that pushes him against the wall. 

 

“Good,” breathes Rhys, tilting his head back and groaning, “Goo-ood, yeah, I-”

 

“C’mon, kid, let’s-” A pause where Jack is taking off his shirt, and Rhys takes off his too, “Let’s- frickin’-”

 

Jack looks older in the strange purple light, and the thigh between his legs makes him groan.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, please,”

 

Suddenly Jack’s hands are on his chest, skating over him, and Rhys braces himself back, hands on Jack and clenching tight claws into his shoulder. When they rub over his nipples, he- he  _ shivers, _ which is saying something because it’s just the  _ softest _ touch, and when Jack’s hands trail slowly down to his cock, he  _ jerks. _

 

“ _ Yeah.” _ So sue him. Rhys has a thing for DJs. 

 

“Good boy, c’mon, there?” Jack presses up, grabs one of his hands, pulls it down, pushes it back against the wall.

 

The bass beats far faster than his heart and he’s  _ so _ dizzy. Rhys makes a sound in the back of his throat.

 

“Should-” he says, stuttering it out even as he leans into Jack for another kiss, where Jack bites at his lips and neck and probably draws blood, “Should we be-”

 

The sensation suddenly stops, nothing left but the faint bass of the walls, and he whines. “You not into it, kid? We can stop if-”

 

“No, no!!!” Rhys throws his hands up and nearly hits Jack in the chest. Not that it would do much, he figures, Jack is built like a  _ tank. “ _ I mean-  _ here?!  _ In the hall?”

 

Then he smiles. “You sure you’re not into it?”

 

“I-” Rhys is glad the light is so odd, because his face suddenly feels very hot and  _ very _ pink, “I didn’t say that.”

 

“Damn straight,” says Jack, deep in his throat. And suddenly the hands are back on him, he’s pushed against the wall, and there’s a hand at his dick and lips ( _ teeth) _ at his neck, nipping under his jaw and sucking.

 

Slick heat, up and down him, Rhys tipping his head back and the vibration of the walls hitting the base of his cock, somehow, like this whole place is connected to a speaker.

 

It’s building in him  _ already. _ It’s like- he can barely  _ think, _ the thrum and the beat and the slick-sweet-movement, it’s in his veins and his head and his eardrums, bright and treble-bass- _ beat- _

 

Rhys makes an odd strangled noise, then pants for a second.

 

Jack’s eyes look heated.

 

Rhys drops to his knees.

 

“Oh,  _ you, kid, _ ” Jack purrs, “ _ I like you.” _

 

Jack’s hands slide through his hair, and Rhys is sure they’re gonna come away glittery, because it seems like the whole club was covered in neons and shiny sequins. He ignores the wet discomfort in his pants, instead focuses on the beat and his tongue, pulsing in time and feeling the sweet grip of clenching fingers in hair and warm palm on the back of his neck. There’s no forcing it though, Jack makes no move to fuck his face, instead let’s the whole thing go as smoothly as the thick bass that’s sitting in Rhys’ head like syrup. It’s a soft thrum now, slow and steady and clearly it’s later than Rhys thought, the party winding down.

 

“Good,” breathes Jack, when Rhys twists his tongue just-so, lets his head move with the fading and twisting beat, feeling the heavy weight of Jack on his tongue and kissing at the tip, laving at it gently with his tongue.

 

“F _ uck, _ ” Jack groans. Rhys does it again, licking up and down the thick ridge and kissing, one hand moving to cup him and  _ squeeze, _ because if he’s right Jack’s into that, and he’s not often wrong-

 

The hand in his hair tightens. Rhys hums around the thick cock in his mouth, purrs out lyrics to the song that’s threading through his brain, and echoes Jack in a  _ click _ at the back of his throat.

 

Suddenly Jack’s coming down his throat, and Rhys looks up at him- very deliberately, just-so, calculated- opens his mouth, licks his lips, swallows, surges up, kisses, clenches his fists into Jack’s shirt, and says, “ _ Fuck,” _

 

“You into it?” Jack pants.

 

Rhys smiles and kisses Jack’s neck. He’s pleased to hear that even a DJ got breathless at an (awesome) blowjob in a corridor with a man he barely knew.

 

“You’ve got no idea how into it I am,” mumbles Rhys, purring as Jack zips him up and kisses him with teeth. “Your place or mine?”

 

Jack laughs roughly, deep, bass-y. It hits him in the same way the music does. “Mine, kid. We’re goin’ to mine.”

 

***

 

“...And that’s the story of how I fucked the DJ,” finishes Rhys, flopping back in his chair.

 

Vaughn, to his delight, looks thoroughly scandalised.

 


End file.
